


hunger like a storm

by redpaint



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Austrian Grand Prix 2020, Casual Sex, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Quarantine, Skin Hunger, Touch-Starved, an ungodly amount of italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24712702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Lando first sees the term on Twitter, two months into the lockdown.Skin hunger.It seems a bit dramatic to be honest.He tells himself this for five months and then he shows up in Austria and nearly moans when he accidentally brushes up against Alex’s arm while they’re leaving the press room.
Relationships: Antonio Giovinazzi/Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc/Lando Norris, Lando Norris/Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris/George Russell, Lando Norris/Max Verstappen, Lando Norris/Torger "Toto" Wolff
Comments: 19
Kudos: 129





	hunger like a storm

**Author's Note:**

> this fic contains 0 nutritional content. i need racing back lmao.

Lando first sees the term on Twitter, two months into the lockdown. _Skin hunger._ It seems a bit dramatic to be honest. He’s well and truly alone, and he’s doing fine, talking to his thousand closest friends when he needs company and jerking off when he’s horny. His right hand isn’t the same as another warm body but it’s good enough. It’s like a sneak peek into a neighboring universe where he’s not grown up in racing and can’t find sex around any given corner. It’s fine. He’s fine.

He tells himself this for five months and then he shows up in Austria and nearly moans when he accidentally brushes up against Alex’s arm while they’re leaving the press room, and Lando’s spent the past hour looking at his hands, how did he never notice his _hands_ before and, well, his fucking _mouth_ is _watering_ and—

“You alright?” Alex asks, squinting at him like he knows something is up. He sounds more suspicious than concerned but in his defense, Lando himself might look a bit mad, backing up wildly and avoiding eye contact like it’s the plague.

“Er, yeah, just uh, trying to keep my distance,” Lando mutters, heading off down the hallway. He walks with purpose all the way to his driver room, where he can bury his head in his hands and groan in the safety of isolation.

⁂

He says _fuck it_ around hour 20, when he should be resting up for practice but is instead laying awake in his absurdly plush hotel room, every spot on his body that the sheets touch so sensitive he could cry. Andreas had clapped him on the shoulder before the team headed back to the hotel and it nearly sent his nervous system into overdrive, and he knew he had to put an end to it. Wanting to fuck the boss was one step too far, even considering some of the fantasies he had come up with during his time alone. Toto could stay in the spank bank. Andreas should never be allowed to even make a deposit.

The issue is, it’s already past midnight. All the other drivers had “families” or “girlfriends” to moderate their sleep schedules during lockdown, they’ll be sleeping without a problem. Lando texts the one person he knows will respond without giving him too much shit.

Charles looks like he just woke up and also like he’s trying to hide it, smelling like mouthwash and hastily-applied body spray. Him and his cloud of Old Spice brush past Lando with a bored, “Hello,” before he’s pulling his t-shirt over his head and kicking off his trousers. Lando has to scramble to shut the door before anyone sees, Charles clearly not bothered to care.

It’s quick and hard and that’s alright, that’s all he wanted, really. For all Charles acts aloof, he’s a shivering wreck by the time they’re done, enough so that Lando feels less desperate for how he holds Charles’s hands against his skin as he fucks him, the feeling of them on Lando’s chest almost as good as Charles so fucking tight on his cock.

Lando considers reaching out for a cuddle afterwards, but Charles is all prickly, like he always gets at a race weekend, pouting in the mirror as he inspects himself for stray lovebites, and his skin might be smooth and warm and inviting but deep down he’s abrasive, so Lando kicks him out and they both seem all the more relieved for it.

⁂

The thing is, if he thought fucking Charles would solve the problem, he was a fool. He spends the night and the next morning replaying the feeling of bodily warmth in his mind, imagining soft and scratchy hair against his skin. There’s no way he’ll text Charles again— he has some shame left, after all, and so he resigns himself to a week and a half of frustrating wanks and lets himself hyperfocus on race data in the hopes of tamping down the nebulous want. He’s too busy to go around making up for lost time.

Sky invites Lando and Daniel to commentate on each other’s quali laps, an elaborate excuse to pin them in place and try to squeeze out more information about next year. Daniel stands too close and jokes that orange is more his color than Lando’s, picks at Lando’s team shirt, pulls Lando back by the shoulders when he leans in too far and blocks the shot. He’s so fucking _handsy_ and Lando knows he’s spent the last few months with nothing but sheep and outback dust for company. Lando’s beaten Daniel by two tenths on track. He doesn’t need to play at _shy_. He’s not the second driver yet.

They end up heading back to the trackside hotel together, deadly silent in the over-air-conditioned elevator. Goosebumps prickle on Lando’s arms. Daniel is probably warm— he walks around like he’s brought the Australian sunshine with him to rainy Spielberg.

Daniel steps out on his floor with a wave goodnight. Lando follows quickly, before the closing doors make a decision for him.

Daniel crosses his arms in front of him, looking him up and down. “Wrong floor, mate. Wouldn’t want to get caught out for spying, would you?”

“Take me to your room. I promise I won’t look where I’m not supposed to,” Lando says, more confident than he feels.

Daniel picks him up in the shower, and Lando wants to protest, something about assumed submission, but also it means he can rest his hands on Daniel’s biceps and just _feel,_ you know? Wet skin sliding on wet skin isn’t what he had in mind, but once he gets it he’s sick with how much he wants it, desperately running his fingers up Daniel’s spine and feeling the strength there too, pushing his ass back into Daniel’s grip and fucking luxuriating in it. He’s _earned_ this one.

Maybe it’s just skin hunger, something primal getting the better of him, but he’s got it under control. He watches Daniel towel off as he lounges on the bed, head pillowed on his arms.

“Lockdown got you horny?” Daniel muses. He’s keeping his distance from the bed, strutting around nude like Lando’s not even there. If he only got a little closer, Lando could put his hands on Daniel’s thigh, scrape a nail over the lines of ink in the tattoos, pull him down onto the mattress and feel Daniel’s weight on top of him— “Glad to be of service, you know. To set you to rights.”

Lando can take a hint. He excuses himself and takes the short elevator ride to the proper floor. Still those goddamn goosebumps. _Set to rights._ God, if only.

⁂

He wakes up the next morning possessed by the paranoid idea that maybe everyone else _knows_ that he’s like this, semi-seriously considering getting on his knees for the next halfway decent looking person that waves good morning.

“Good morning,” Antonio says, when they pass in the paddock. He’s smiling politely. He’s wearing absurd, face-obscuring, sponsor-mandated sunglasses. _Fuck._

They find an unused storage room in record time and Lando’s maybe thought about Antonio’s lips before but he’s never really committed to the fantasy, never really thought about how they might feel, which is good because he would have been _wrong._ Antonio sucks him in short, quick motions, his hands on the back of Lando’s thighs gently pulling him forward every time. Lando focuses on those points of contact like it’s fucking meditation or something, letting his mind go blank and just _feeling_.

Antonio smiles shyly at him afterward, waving off Lando’s sloppy, post-orgasmic efforts at reciprocation. “No, it’s alright. I can see you needed it.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but Lando spends the minutes after he leaves staring at a blank spot on the opposite wall, trying to find out if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

⁂

G  
  
are you free tonihgt  
  
Yeah  
Until 10  
Why?  
  
  


⁂

Lando has to admit that he might be out of his depth. Just a little. He’d gotten an email with an address without even asking for it. Whatever this place is it’s not a hotel, just an expensive-looking unmarked apartment building with a doorman and a front-desk guy who sized him up silently before waving him upstairs and now he’s waiting in the spotless, soulless living room in his boxers, listening fruitlessly to the muffled German coming from the other room.

It gives him the same slightly powerless feeling he had when he had to go team-to-team looking for drives, except now he’s not looking for millions of dollars in investment, just someone’s hands on him to quiet the insatiable hunger to be touched. It still feels like a big ask. Why the hell didn’t he just swipe right on some poor unsuspecting local? He has plenty of experience being horny. It’s never made him _stupid_ before.

This is insane. This is practically treason. He imagines having to explain this away to Zak as _managing an incoming supplier relationship_ and just about heads for the door.

“Come here,” Toto says from the other room, and Lando hesitates for a second, unsure if he’s finally being spoken to. “Unless you want to go.” It doesn’t sound much like he minds either way. When Lando walks into the bedroom Toto is still on the edge of the bed, frowning at some private-looking papers.

Is he really going to have to _work for it?_ Christ, he wants this so bad. Maybe not this exactly, but something like this, something that has this general shape and maybe he’s getting it in the weirdest way possible but since when has his life been _normal?_

Maybe that shame he was clinging to isn’t really worth it.

He kneels in front of the bed and moves one of Toto’s hands to the back of his neck and pushes back into it before letting himself be shepherded forward, and then Toto tangles his fingers in Lando’s hair and that’s the only touch he gets except for Toto’s cock on his tongue and it’s good enough, really, even though he wants _more,_ wants _everything._

There’s another email in Lando’s inbox when he wakes up. _Showing how much you want something is a bad strategy for negotiations. I look forward to continuing our partnership in the future._

⁂

“Do I look, er, desperate to you?”

Max manages to look away from their game of FIFA long enough to roll his eyes. “Desperate to win your first match of the night, maybe. Your defense is shit, mate.”

Lando mashes the buttons on his controller with a little more force. “Okay, but you haven’t like, noticed anything off?”

“Lando, I have no clue what you’re talking about, none. Keep talking and I’m going to score on you again.” Max scores again anyway, glancing over at Lando and waggling his eyebrows. He’s going to need it spelled out for him, isn’t he?

Lando pauses the game and puts his controller down. “I mean have you heard anything about me being a slag?”

Max laughs at that, so hard that he shakes and has to roll over onto his side and wipe tears out of his eyes. “If you’re trying to tell me you had sex, I mean, good for you—”

“That’s not it,” Lando says, rolling his eyes back. Two can play that game. He can play it better than he can play FIFA. “You know what? Never mind. I’ve never thought about sex ever in my whole life, I’m actually a volcel, now stop laughing at me.” He wishes he could actually be annoyed with Max. Instead, he’s smiling and he can hear it in his own voice and it’s not fair that Max can do this to him just by being a dick and being close and unguarded enough to let his t-shirt ride up a little on his side, where the skin looks soft—

“I know you’re not fucking anyone because you still want to get off with me.” Max sits up and puts on his best serious face, the one that makes Lando sure Max is getting ready to rile him up. “Now can we please stop acting like you get any and jerk off already? I know you didn’t just invite me up here for FIFA.”

Lando opens his mouth to argue, but thinks better of it. Max is already shoving down his own shorts, leaving Lando to catch up. Lando puts his hand on Max’s thigh, feels Max tense in surprise. “Can I touch you this time?” Lando says, because he’s gotten good at asking for what he wants. He’s still primed to snatch his hand back in case this goes horribly wrong.

But Max puts one hand on Lando’s shoulder and squeezes a little too hard like he always does, already smirking in the way that Lando knows means he’s about to pretend he’s not being genuine. “Oh Lando, I thought you would never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the person who suggested the antonio blowjob, you know who you are.
> 
> title from touch by daft punk
> 
> originally posted on anon in a moment of cowardice, but honestly at this point you guys know what i'm about


End file.
